The Mayor.
Hopeless is he that fights alone.
Brand.
The <g>best</g> are with me.
The Mayor.
[Smiling.]
That may be,
But they're the <g>most</g>, who follow <g>me</g>.
[Goes.
Brand
[Looking after him.]
A people's champion, thorough-bred!
Active, with fair and open hand,
Honest of heart and sound of head,
But yet a scourge upon the land!
No avalanche, no winter-blast,
No flood, nor frost, nor famine-fast
Leaves half the ruin in its rear
That such a man does, year by year.
Life only by a plague is reft;
But he! How many a thought is cleft,
How many an eager will made numb,
How many a valiant song struck dumb
By such a narrow soul as this!
What smiles on simple faces breaking,
What fires in <g>lowly</g> bosoms waking,
What pangs of joy and anger, seed
That might have ripened into deed,
Die by that bloodless blade of his!
[Suddenly, in anxiety.]
But O the summons! the summons—No!
It is the Doctor!
